A bitter smile flits over Van Zandt’s face. “Satisfaction!” he murmurs. “Ay, I demand satisfaction for two years of utter misery and, by heavens, I shall have it!”
“You shall! I swear it!”
“Ah! And when?”
“At once. This is my only opportunity to accommodate you at present, as I am ordered to Cienfuegos to-morrow. Come, I will wait for you without.” So saying, Felton turns on his heel.
Van Zandt regards him with a look in which suspicion is mingled with a trace of admiration for his sang froid.
“You will attempt no treachery?” he says, sternly.
“I tell you, sir, I am not a coward,” answers Felton, haughtily.
“That he is not,” mutters the soldier with the scarred forehead, and he adds, as if addressing the newspaper in his hand: “This is a devilish unfortunate affair. I must have a hand in it. Hello! Was not that a woman’s scream?” He rises and, throwing open the door leading to the rear of the cafe, steps out upon the veranda. An instant later he dashes the door shut with an ejaculation of amazement.
Standing at the further end of the veranda, terror depicted in her colorless cheeks, is Louise Hathaway. A dozen feet from her is one of the troopers, who has strolled out upon the veranda, and, while much the worse for liquor, has plainly insulted the American girl. When the new-comer arrives on the scene, he sees the caballero wiping the blood from a long, deep scratch across his rage-contorted face. Between insulter and insulted Cyrus Felton interposes a feeble barrier.
With a muttered malediction the baffled Spaniard turns and re-enters the cafe, followed by the scarred soldier, whose timely arrival has doubtless saved Miss Hathaway from further affront.